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We brag on havin’ bread, but none of us are bakers.
We all talk havin’ greens, but none of us on acres.
If none of us on acres, and none of us grow wheat,
Then who will feed our people when our people need to eat?
So it seems our people starve from lack of understandin’
Cause all we seem to give them is some ballin’ and some dancin’,
And some talkin’ about our car and imaginary mansions.
We should be indicted for bullshit we inciting,
Havin’ children deaf and pretendin’ it’s exciting.
We are advertisements for agony and pain.
We exploit the youth. We tell them to join a gang.
We tell them dope stories, introduced them to the game.
Killer Mike, “Reagan,” R.A.P. Music, 2012
Put this in your CD-ROM:
www dot Canibus dot com.
You can find me on the Internet, talkin’ to chicks
That was sweatin’ me off the ‘Music Makes Me High’ remix.
I be talkin’ mad trash, tryin to get ’em to laugh.
See, if I click and drag long enough I’ll get the ass…
Canibus, “Making a Name For Ourselves,” from Common’s One Day It’ll All Make Sense, 1998
…Cops just surrounding me with pistols everywhere.
They put me in the backseat of their car handcuffed,
Pushed out them chests like they’re big rough and tough.
A cop come and said ‘You’ll never sell your guns now.’
I said ‘It doesn’t matter, you’ll sell them anyhow.
You take the guns from me, you sell them for a fee;
Anyway you put it, they’ll get in the city!’
KRS-One, “100 Guns,” from Boogie Down Productions’ Edutainment, 1990
Yo, where the teachers went, with all that pro-black shit?
Where all the conscious niggas, who used to chat like this?
See, I remember yesterday when y’all was Gods and Earths,
Egyptians and metaphysicists on the verge of giving birth
To Understanding, and planting seeds that grow.
Now everybody’s on that bullshit about killing and so.
Wise Intelligent, “Conscious Style,” The New World Order, 1996

The poor get worked, the rich get richer,
The world gets worse, do you get the picture?
The poor gets dead, the rich get depressed,
The ugly get mad, the pretty get stressed.
The ugly get violent, the pretty get gone,
The old get stiff, the young get stepped on.

Whoever told you that “it was all good” lied,
So throw your fists up if you not satisfied.

J-Live, “Satisfied,” All of the Above, 2002
You’re lookin’ at the Fridge, I’m the rookie.
I may be large, but I’m no dumb cookie.
You’ve seen me hit, you’ve seen me run,
When I kick and pass, we’ll have more fun.
I can dance, you will see,
The others, they all learn from me.
I don’t come here lookin’ for trouble,
I just came here to do the Super Bowl Shuffle.
William “The Refrigerator” Perry, “The Super Bowl Shuffle,” Chicago Bears, 1985

I call you once…you never dialed back.
Twice…you never dialed back.
Saturday morning, live, I’m on Soul Train, talkin’ to Don Cornelius.

Saturday night, my phone rings…
Saturday night, I won’t answer.
Saturday night, my phone rings again…
Saturday night, I don’t answer.

Kool Keith, “Stop Jockin Me,” from Ultramagnetic MC’s Funk Your Head Up, 1992. Donald Cortez “Don” Cornelius (September 27, 1936 – February 1, 2012) Rest in peace.
I find it’s distressin’, there’s never no in-between:
We either niggaz or kings,
We either bitches or queens.
The deadly ritual seems immersed in the perverse,
Full of short attention spans, short tempers, and short skirts.
Mos Def, “Thieves in the Night,” from Black Star’s Mos Def and Talib Kweli are Black Star, 1998